


Hot Water

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Drama, Early in Canon, Falling In Love, First Time, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: Dr. John Watson's libidinous affair with a respected Scotland Yard inspector abruptly judders to a halt when the former meets a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, for the very first time.  The attraction between the two is strongly mutual, but misunderstandings only multiply and tensions abound, as all three men attempt to deal with the new situation.
Relationships: John Watson/Tobias Gregson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 112
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

A Monday morning, early, on Clayton Street. A third floor room, a double bed, two figures clinched and shrouded, sleeping. The spring air biting, as the window stood ajar the whole night through, the curtains fluttering in reprimand. Shirts and trousers tossed around the room, as if by sprites set on a mischief, and a pocket watch sat ticking on a table by the bed, where a pale hand stretched out to grasp it, to draw it to a groggy face, to squint the dawn away.

I could not see. I lit the lamp. It was six-thirty, just. The fellow by my side groaned low and twisted round to sling an arm across me. “Turn that damned thing off.”

“It's morning,” I said, underneath the weight of him. “Your shift begins at eight.”

“My shift can hang itself,” said he, now rubbing both his eyes to glare at me. He aimed and bit my shoulder.

“For god's sake, Toby.” We wrestled briefly, laughing, 'til I bested him by straddling his waist and pinning both his hands above his head. “You pest,” I said.

A clanging from the room below. We halted, listened to the saucepan racket as our neighbour's day began. 

“If there's one thing I can't stand,” said my companion as we slowly separated, “it's the smell of burning sausages before I've washed my face.” He heaved himself out of the bed and stood there, naked, proud and flexing. I admired him. I lit a cigarette and watched him bustle crabwise to the wash stand. The water shocked him into wakefulness. He rattled through his wardrobe and emerged in a clean shirt and suit. He sat upon the bed to tie his laces. “Are you getting up at all?”

“Oh, I suppose.” I stubbed my cigarette, and yawned. “I've no real business until ten.”

“You foul part-timer.” Toby stood and combed his hair before the mirror at the dresser. “Do you still have your key?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you can let yourself out, then. There's a loaf, some cheese, and butter in the cupboard if you want it, but you know I'm out of coffee.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I'll see you later, then?”

“Let's meet for lunch.”

“All right.” A pause. “Last night was grand, John.”

We grinned in memory. 

“It certainly was that.”

He drew the curtains, shut the window – “... _for christ's sake_...” – and waved, and then was gone, no breakfast and, quite certainly, no coffee. 

I leaned back against the headboard, lit a second cigarette, and dreamed of nothing for a while. At length I rose to wash and dress; my crumpled shirt would have to serve another day, and I cursed roundly at my reasons for not folding it. I fashioned a cheese sandwich from a somewhat stale and sulking loaf of bread, and roamed the flat. The threadbare life of a staunch bachelor: the rooms devoid of decoration, the bare minimal; the grime of the small corner with the stove, the makeshift cookware, old chipped crockery. And empty whisky bottles lurking underneath the table, and the books that scattered everywhere as if in fright and fleeing from their reader. All this I contemplated, and I thought it not so different from my own concern, if truth be told, for a police surgeon's lot was not so very lucrative, and London rent was steeper now. (I kept a better pantry, though, and kept my books on shelves, and owned more baubles than I strictly had the space for.)

Out on the street, with bag in hand, I made my way to the newsagent to buy my paper and tobacco.

“Good morning, Harry. How is Max?”

“Oh, he's well. He's had his breakfast, so the missus says. He's missing you, I think. He wants his dad.”

“I'll be home later on today. I'll fetch him then.”

“Aye, right enough.”

I read the paper as I walked. Some minor scandal as regards a member of parliament, the Hon. Cole Ramsey, held my attention all the way to Scotland Yard. A misting drizzle had begun as I ducked through the door, and on through the long corridors to where I had to be. I shook my hat, removed my coat, and thought of Toby as I shuffled through my paperwork. Two months or more we'd been a pair – if you could call it that – if random trysts could count; if weekend nights and days might tally also; sex, and mainly that, with no complaint. It had happened very suddenly; in fact, I had despaired of ever finding any solace of that nature, so precarious I thought it, notwithstanding my escapades in my old regiment – but those were different times, of course. Now throttled up in suits and ties and bowler hats, life seemed a jot more complicated.

Still, I thought of him, and somehow filled my papers and my dockets until my first call of the day, a fellow wounded in a scuffle with an officer, and brought in yelling, dripping blood and cursing all of us to hell. I patched him up and sent him off to be addressed. Out in the corridor, I came across Lestrade, the little ferret-faced inspector, who was peering at the noticeboard and frowning at the pinnings. “Ah, Dr. Watson,” he said, spying me from half a hazel eye, “I suppose you've heard the news?”

“No, what is that?” 

“Why, Ramsey, the MP, you know, he's been found dead.”

“Has he?” I said, shocked. “I was reading of him only just an hour ago. What happened?”

“Suicide. Or murder. That's what we must find out. Shot through the head, at any rate. I'm off out there now to take a look.” The inspector shook his head as though this were a weary chore he had to do. “I've called in a consultant, because we'll need his help, I think. It's an important case.”

I nodded, stepped aside to let him bustle past. The noticeboard now sported a typewritten memorandum, the first line of which read thus: _“Important! New Consultant to the Yard.”_ I didn't care to read on further. Consultant this, consultant that. I made my way on down the corridor until I reached a door. I tapped and entered. There he was, my fellow seated at his desk. At the last moment I observed that he was not alone: a tall and dark-dressed gentleman was standing to one side and thumbing briskly through a notebook. Both men turned their heads to glance at me.

“Gregson,” I said, haltingly, “I am sorry for intruding. I thought you were alone.” I stopped. The stranger stood before me was now eyeing me askance.

“It is rude to burst in unannounced,” said he.

“I tapped,” I said.

“Yet alas, we did not hear you.”

I ventured on a charm offensive and thrust my hand into his orbit. “Dr. John Watson,” I informed him. “And I apologise.”

“A doctor!” he exclaimed. He shook my hand. “I was just saying to young Gregson here, that I wanted one of those.”

“To what purpose?” I enquired. What was the fellow's name? I looked him up and down. I felt a frisson that I did not care to classify.

“To _assist_ me,” he replied. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

My face must have seemed blank, for now he rolled his eyes and sighed. “I'm a consultant,” he explained. “I've been brought in just this minute as regards the Hon. Cole Ramsey.”

“Oh! The suicide!”

He smirked. “That's what _they_ say.”

Gregson all this time was eyeing each of us in turn. His mouth was downturned. “Are you busy, John?” 

“Not now. My schedule's free for a short while.”

Gregson thumbed in my direction. “You want to borrow him?” This to the fellow Holmes, who nodded shortly. “Some field work for you then, John, if you like. Might be of interest.”

“All right.” I looked at Holmes, then back to Gregson. “If I'm not back in time for lunch...?”

“Oh, don't worry, just be off with you.”

And so it was I found myself out in the corridor, and scuttling for my bag, before returning to find Holmes examining his pocket watch. He snapped it shut as I approached. “Exeter Place,” he said. “It's quicker if we take a cab.” We found one without trouble. Once inside and on our way, we looked each other up and down.

“You haven't worked for Scotland Yard for very long,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“You are correct,” I said. “Did Gregson tell you that?”

“No. I deduced it.” A small pause. “That's what I do.” 

“I see.” I waited for my new friend to elaborate, but it appeared that he might not. “How long have you been, er, consulting?”

“With the Yard, just a few months. I'm mostly independent.”

“Tracking down lost kittens, I suppose, and mislaid wedding rings.” I smiled to show that I was jesting, but his face became a pucker, and he sniffed and looked away. “I didn't mean it,” I added hastily. “Good lord, you're sensitive.”

“Not remotely,” he said crossly. “I really wish I hadn't asked to bring you out, if _this_ is how you're going to be.”

His hands were agitated, and I watched them as they fluttered at his side, both delicate and mottled, strangely. “Acids,” he said sharply, noting the angle of my eye. “I dabble a good deal in chemistry, and my hands come off the worse for it.” He tucked them in his pockets with a mote of shy self-consciousness. He peeked at me. “I do hate being stared at.”

I couldn't help it. He was handsome, fascinating, and though recalcitrant, I liked him very much.

I changed the subject. “Tell me about this case,” I said. “What do you know?”

“Well, very little,” he replied. “Ramsey was the rummest sort. I met him, once or twice, some time ago. The type of fellow who attracts the foulest flies. Always in some great fix or other, and entirely of his making. If it's suicide, however, I'll be most surprised.”

“Why's that?”

Holmes shrugged and smiled. “Are you a halfway decent doctor?” he enquired.

My eyebrows rose. “I'd like to think so,” I replied. “Are you a competent consultant?”

I saw the corners of his mouth twitch, and his hands begin to recommence their flutter from the safety of their pockets. “Yes,” he said. “I think I am.” 

“We are well matched, then,” I said, provocative, not caring of the fact. His grey eyes widened just a fraction. He may have edged slightly away. He might have spoken, had our driver not drawn up the cab and tapped upon the roof.

“Well, we are here,” I said.

“Thank goodness,” said my acquaintance. “I mean, that's good.”

And we stepped down, and paid our fare, and turned towards Exeter Place.


	2. Chapter 2

The houses on Exeter Place were very fine, and number nine finer than most, with its three-storey height of red brick, large sash windows, and tended bushes to the front. The Royal blue door was standing open as we approached and stepped up to our man in uniform. A few words had us through and to the hallway, where we found Lestrade in waiting. He eyed the pair of us suspiciously. “Hello, now, what's all this?”

“Dr. Watson's here to help us,” Holmes replied. “You don't mind, do you?” He did not wait for a reply, but barrelled through to the large sitting-room beyond, a sharp tug on my sleeve to chivvy me along. The room was bright, with an oppressive weight regardless – largely due to the dead body on the rug at the far side of it. Lestrade had tagged behind; he watched us take in the strange scene before he uttered – rather pompously I thought: “We've had a thorough look, I doubt there's much left to be found. It's suicide, of course. I said so from the first.”

“What you may say and what is fact are two quite separate things,” said Holmes. He motioned to Lestrade that we'd prefer to be alone, and closed the door to shut the puffing fellow out into the hall. “Oh, what a bumbler he is,” my companion complained. “And he's the best of a bad lot – which doesn't say much for the rest of them.”

I goggled at him, scandalised. “You'll be for it if he hears you.”

“I don't care,” said he. He flicked a hand. “The thing is, Lestrade _needs_ me. His success rate has improved a hundredfold since I've been helping him. And precious little credit do I get for it, but never mind, that's really of no import.”

“Really? I would have thought that--”

“It's of no _import_ ,” Holmes said sharply. “Now, just come over here and look at this poor fool laid on the rug.”

I did so. We examined him together, before Holmes roamed around the room on his own methods, and so forgetting me entirely. I stood to one side and watched him as he shuffled on his knees, peered through both the windows, and crouched down behind the sofas and the chairs. It all seemed very thorough, and I found myself enjoying the odd spectacle (particularly the moments when his rump was in the air and pointing true in my direction). I had so many probing questions, not the least of which was if the man was married or a bachelor, and if, pray god, the latter, then possibly...?

“You're dreaming,” Sherlock Holmes snapped – and I came to with a start to find him standing to the side of me. “And whatever you are dreaming, I don't think I want to know.”

I blinked and focused on his face. “Best not to ask then,” I replied. I saw him flush a little, frown, consult his notebook, make a scribble with a pencil. “Are you born of a large family?” I asked, now quite determined to find out just what I could about this beautiful enigma.

His grey eyes narrowed on the page, and _scribble, scribble_ yet, before he chose to answer me. “Not very large,” he said. “I have one elder brother still alive, and that is all.”

“I am sorry. But how lovely, to be sure, you have a sibling,” I rejoined – to which he scowled, and snapped the tip clean from its lead. He drew a penknife from his pocket, and commenced to scrape and sharpen.

“It is not remotely lovely,” he replied. “For my brother is a bother and a blight upon my life.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated.

His features softened. “What are your thoughts on this?” he asked. He pointed to the politician, crumpled, oddly folded. There was a gun beside the body.

“Shot through the forehead at close range,” I said. “There's powder on the skin. No other injuries, or signs of any struggle. It _does_ look very much like suicide.” 

“You're incorrect,” said Holmes. “At least, as regards the latter. Note the position of the body. And see, the drawer of that small bureau quite close to Ramsey has been pulled open.”

The drawer was at knee-height and, to my eyes, contained no interest. “Table cloths and napkins,” Holmes observed. “That is suggestive.”

“But of what?”

He merely wagged a finger at me. “I never theorise,” said he.

What a frustrating man.

We reported to Lestrade, where my companion made it clear that he would be in touch directly, once he'd made some small research. We left the house and took a stroll around the grounds towards the rear. Holmes leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette. 

“You seem very tight with Gregson,” Holmes remarked. His head was tilted, with his eyes half closed, his face inscrutable. I was not quite sure how to answer him.

“Whatever makes you think that?”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Oh, never mind.”

We both were quiet for a moment. All the strangeness of the day seemed to converge and pool around us, and I had so many thoughts inside my head I hardly knew where to begin with them. Holmes's mentioning of Gregson made me cautious now, however, and so I kept my lips shut tight and did not venture any folly.

“Do you live nearby?” Holmes enquired after some minutes.

“Not far away.” And I provided my address, to which he nodded.

“Would you object if I make contact with you later, at some point? About the case,” he added swiftly.

“I would like that very much,” I said. Holmes blinked at me. He stubbed his cigarette, and eased himself free of the wall.

“I'll let you go, then,” said the fellow. “I've kept you too long as it is. The Yard will wonder where you are.”

We shook hands firmly, and he flitted off. I took the other path and hailed a hansom, and so travelled back to Scotland Yard to finish up my day. I thought of Holmes all of the way: the arch savant; the vain aesthete. I hoped and prayed that he would contact me as promised, for I realised in my eagerness I'd not procured his own address – and how to do so, now, without suspicion? 

It was two o'clock before I reached my office, where the afternoon passed quietly, the usual bumps and scrapes of any station, and before long I was back out on the street, heading for home. The house was half-lit, and I knocked upon the ground-floor door, one rap, two-three. A cheery red-faced woman thrust her nose and half her skirts out, and on seeing me, the rest of her. “Oh, doctor!” said she, smiling, “it is you, and it's about high time.” She turned back to the kitchen, calling out, whereupon I heard the scrape of claws, and there – a bulldog charging into view. “Here is your Max.”

“Here, boy!” I said. “Good boy.” The puppy whined and launched itself. I staggered back; a small pup, yes, but with some weight to him! “It's very kind of you to care for him,” I said to the good lady (Mrs. Briggs, my downstairs neighbour, in case the reader wants to know).

“It's a pleasure, and he's no bother. He's an angel, aren't you, Max? Oh, you doctors, with your working hours, and all those overnights! You must be worth your weight in gold.”

“Er, yes, I'm sure, most probably. Good evening, then.” We trotted both of us away up to my quarters, where the pup commenced to snuffle and to gambol, happy to be home at last, I think. I took a change of clothes, and a small supper made of cold cuts, buttered bread, and boiled potatoes, all the while my thoughts returning to the friend I'd made today. A flash of guilt. I swiftly quelled it. Quite ridiculous.

I'd barely settled with a nightcap when a knock upon the door made me start up. Could it be him? (But yet so soon?)

It was Toby. I could not hide my disappointment, and to my great unease, he noticed. We spent a minute with a to-and-fro of discontent that ended with his plumping on my sofa, folded arms and peevish brows.

“You've changed your tune all of a sudden,” he remarked. “For god's sake, man, stop jittering, and sit.”

I sat beside him. “I've had an awkward day,” I said. 

“Well, what the hell about it? You only went to take a look at that old milquetoast. Did Holmes upset you? That's what he's like.” He looked the sharper at me then. “What did he say to you?”

“He said nothing,” I snapped quickly. “He was most affable.” (Not quite, but still.)

My fellow made to lay an arm across my shoulders, but I squirmed out of his reach and made some business with the kettle for a pot of tea. He followed me, and spun me round to face him. “John, what now? Why can't I touch you?”

“I don't know,” I said, in panic. And I didn't, no, not really.

“Did something _happen?_ ” Lips pressed tight. “That little fucker.”

“ _Toby_.” In shock. “You've got it wrong.”

“I bloody haven't, have I. He's a dirty little puzzle. And you're no better.”

“You weren't complaining when you bedded me.” And now I was belligerent, and handling it quite badly. “I suppose that if I'd made you wait, you'd think the better of me.”

His face creased, and just for a moment I thought he might weep, but he wrenched himself clear to a cold look of scorn. “So it's true?”

“Nothing's true,” I said, blindly. 

“Come here.”

“I don't want to.”

“Come _here_. Christ, you're just like a child.” He latched me into his arms, where I stood, mute, confused. “Will you just tell me what happened?”

“I'm not sure myself.” I nestled, a little. I felt him relax. But it felt different now, and I didn't know why. “We just talked.”

“Aye, well talking's a bad enough thing where that fellow's concerned. Don't see him again, John. Will you promise me that?”

“Yes,” I said, flatly. It was the first lie I'd told him. The first, not the last.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, in my room, a rasping snore inside my ear. I twisted free of its embrace, and stood, regarding Toby stretched there in the bed, asleep. _It's not the same_. I quickly washed and dressed while he still slumbered, and I fed the mutt his breakfast, and I made some toast and honey and some tea. Toby came to join me, yawning, took his place at the small table, poured himself a cup of tea. “You didn't wake me,” he said quietly.

“You looked so peaceful, and besides, it's early yet.” I chewed my toast and thought a moment. “What did you mean when you called Holmes a _'dirty puzzle'_ yesterday?”

“Oh, are we back to him again? It's what he is. Don't be naïve.”

“He didn't seem so.”

“Then he's fooled you.” Toby scowled. “So just remember what I said.”

“I'll thank you kindly not to tell me what to do.”

“Oh, right, oh aye? You think you're better than me, then?”

“I can't have this conversation,” I said tiredly. “We're _not_ husband and wife. We've never kissed. As you once said, we're 'getting rid of dirty water'. I'm as loyal as I can be, on that basis.”

“Damn you,” said he, the red now rising in his cheeks, “I said that way back when.”

“So things have changed?”

“Damn you,” he said again. “Why should I kiss you, when you clearly cannot stand the sight of me?” He surged up backwards from his chair and to his feet. He pulled his jacket on, and grappled with his hat. “I have to get to work,” he said, all gruff and grit. “Mayhaps I'll see you later, if you care to, which I doubt.”

I moped around after he'd gone. The guilt again, which struck me sharper than expected, but I was in uncharted water. This was the closest thing I'd had to an “agreement”, and the path ahead was all but nigh invisible. How should I behave? Was I unreasonable? Was Toby? Things were different, I was sure, between two men. I had never known romance, and I had never been in love. I felt dissatisfied.

Dissatisfied, at least, until the telegram. It was from Mr. Sherlock Holmes, inviting me to 221B Baker Street, pertaining to the murder of the Hon. Cole Ramsey.

I was fast about my travel, and I wound up on his doorstep before nine o'clock. His landlady was pleasant as she showed me up the stairs towards his rooms which, as I saw, were large and comfortable and handsomely laid out.

“Good gracious me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “you didn't waste a scrap of time.”

And we shook hands again, and looked the other over as before. He was smartly dressed in pinstripe, clean and prim, his raven hair slicked back, a smile – the slightest one – upon his face.

“At least you have a fresh ironed shirt today,” said he.

“Why, what the... what?”

He chuckled heartily. “You've breakfasted already? Very well. Come smoke a pipe with me, at least. I've barely had the time for that, what with your clanging on the bell at this ungodly hour.”

“ _You_ sent the telegram,” I said, half in a huff.

“And so I did. Here, stuff your briar and sit right here, let's talk a while.”

We sat together by the fire, and shared tobacco, and I studied him intently as he fussed with pipe and spill. I could simply not equate him with the label he'd been given of a _dirty little puzzle_. He seemed a gentleman indeed, if somewhat brusque.

“Your rooms are marvellous,” I told him, “and so very well appointed. Have you lived here very long?”

“Since January,” he replied. He told a tale of how he came to meet the owner, Mrs. Hudson; of some small business with her husband (sadly no longer alive), and how she treated him much as an errant son, in fondly scolding him for messes and mishaps. I could see the evidence of these: the acid stains upon the table, and the ash upon the rug, and papers, papers, everywhere, and books and scrolls to fair abundance.

“You are unmarried then,” I said, feeling a low whirr of delight.

He looked at me. “Well yes, of course.”

The draw I felt to him was heady and magnetic; somewhat alarming, if the truth be told. I prickled with the urge to set my sail. “You are too comely to be unattached,” I told him.

“Some would say my nose is over-large,” he cautiously replied.

“It lends you gravitas.”

“I've heard it mentioned that my eyes are too deep-set.”

“They burn with intellect.”

“My forehead is quite high. My chin is sharp. I am too lean.”

“For heaven's sake. You're pulchritudinous.”

He gaped at me. I stared right back. “Watson,” he said slowly, “were you banking on my not knowing the meaning of that word?”

“I think I'm banking on you not taking offence,” I said.

Holmes cleared his throat; his lashes fluttered, and he looked away. “How sure you are,” he murmured. 

“Holmes, I apologise.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Indeed I do.”

I'd made a blunder then, perhaps. We spoke of nothing for a moment, and the fire filled in the void with anxious crackles, spits and flame.

“So, then,” Holmes said, at last. “The Hon. Cole Ramsey.”

“What have you learned?” I asked him, curious.

“Oh, it was murder. Attempted blackmail on his part; the would-be victim was of sterner stuff than Ramsey gave them credit for. I have political connections... as I believe I may have mentioned. I was informed that our MP had played that game before, so he might supplement his gambling addiction.”

“How terrible,” I said (while not confessing that I too, upon occasion, was rather fond of wasting money on the track). “But the position of the body? And the open drawer?”

“Allow me then to demonstrate.” He rose, and drew me over to a bureau where he pulled a drawer and knelt down just in front of it. He turned his head to peer at me. “Imagine I am rummaging inside,” said he. “The table cloths are folded; from the outside they seem fairly unremarkable, but their folds contain some letters, say, perhaps.”

“Aha! I see.”

“Ramsey takes the letters, hoping to torment his victim, whereupon they whip their pistol from their pocket and fire a bullet at his head, killing him outright. And he tumbles back, like _so_.”

And Holmes sprawled backwards on the rug, his legs tucked underneath from kneeling. But as opposed to feeling wonder at this clinical deduction, I could only see the tautness of the fabric at the thigh, and of the pull around the midriff, of the barest hint of skin between the buttons of his shirt. Fair overcome, I felt the strongest urge to kiss him and, moreover, felt the need to place my hands on him, the tautest point, that fabric at the thigh, a hint of paradise above...

“Well, Watson, do you _see?_ ”

I think I saw too well. “Er, yes, er, what?”

“For heaven's sake. That _this_ was the clue I needed when we were at the house just yesterday. The position of the body was not amenable with suicide, is what I'm trying to say.” 

“Wonderful,” I said, although not hearing a small word of it.

Holmes lay there, still and quiet, his grey eyes blinking, and it took all of my strength to step away, to draw a breath, to take a suck upon my pipe. I heard him shuffle to his feet and step a small distance away. “You'd better leave,” he said.

“But what about the case? Can you not tell me any more?”

“It will be settled by today. No doubt you'll read about it later in the papers.”

“Is there something I can do?”

“Yes. You can leave.”

He corralled me, much as a sheepdog might, towards the stairs and out. We paused politely to shake hands, and then I faced the street alone, the wretched bustle of the day. The abruptness of our parting hurt me keenly, yet I knew I was to blame for this small fracture. All that blasted intimation – when Holmes was very plainly immune to whatever 'charms' I had. Was he an invert, yet, at all? I couldn't even tell you that. Perhaps he kept a string of women at a rakish, equal distance, and my slight tug upon the slack had horrified him. 

Back at the Yard, I glumly went about my business. Lestrade was piping like a bird about his new success, his brains and ingenuity in the solving of the murder of the Hon. Cole Ramsey. I rolled my eyes behind the safety of my door, for I knew better, still it turned my thoughts back to that dashing fellow lodged at Baker Street. I wondered if we'd meet again. I felt a curling of despair inside my gut, which was quite rudely interrupted by a knock upon the glass, and the small figure of our mailboy as he slid into the room. “Excuse me, sir, you have a letter,” said the lad, as he deposited a small handwritten envelope, no postmark, on my desk. I did not recognise the writing. As I picked it up to take a closer look, first Toby's head, and then the rest of him, peeked through the office door. To my dismay, he took a chair and sat there rigidly in front of me.

“I have a small proposal,” he said softly.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well, you might close the door at least,” I said.

He kicked at it with his boot. 

“What do you want?”

“ _There's_ a fine welcome. Are you sulking, still? Look at your face, I've never seen a sourer mug than yours.” He chuckled. (As my expression did not alter, he grew serious.) “Here, John, don't be like this. I don't know what the hell's gone wrong, but I've thought this through, and want to say--”

I held my hand up, interrupting him. “It's over, Toby. I'm so sorry.”

“Eh? What's that mean?”

“Sshh, lower your voice, do you want Hill next door to hear? I mean we're over. Whatever 'thing' we had, it's through. It's not your fault. I'm in a stew, and I just need to work things out.”

“I know where _this_ is coming from.”

“It's not to do with him,” I lied.

“Well, let's forget what I was going to say. It doesn't matter now.” He pushed the chair back, rose, and strode towards the door. He turned to look at me. “You'll never know, you bloody fool.” He left. The door yawned widely in his wake. I stared long after him, expecting him to have a change of heart. _He didn't care much, after all,_ I thought. I stared down at the envelope. _Oh, that._ I slipped a knife under the flap, withdrew the sheet, and read the words. My eyes grew wider. “Goodness me,” I said aloud. I took a quick look at my watch: it was mid-afternoon. I snatched my hat and coat, picked up my bag, and left the office; took a cab north-west which dropped me off at Crawford Street. I knocked upon the door of number 23, and gazed up at the gleaming new brass plate. _Goodness me._ I went inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day, once back at home, I made a critical decision. I would take a leap of faith, and I would court Holmes. I would woo him. Whatever hyperbole might fit the mark. I wanted him – and in a way I'd wanted no-one else before. The feeling dazed me, made me reckless. I bought two tickets in the stalls for a Wagner night at Covent Garden that weekend. And if he turned me down – at least then I had tried, and I would try again. I spent a restless night, anticipating all the words that he might say to put me firmly in my place, wriggle away, declare himself aloft, aloof, uninterested. By the morning I had worked myself into a colder sweat than I felt pleasant, but took a cab to Baker Street, clutching my tickets, firm in resolve.

Holmes was in, thank all the heavens, and he greeted me quite civilly. He seemed perplexed, perhaps, that I was visiting so early, still he invited me to breakfast. We sat with bacon, ham and eggs, and a hot coffee pot, and spent some minutes talking over the conclusion of the Ramsey case (the wife of an MP upon the 'other side' was culprit, and the trial would be held shortly).

“Tell me _your_ news,” said he at last. “It must be quite remarkable, if you are here all of a sweat with half your buttons misaligned.”

I looked down in dismay. “Oh, double blast.”

He chuckled softly. “And _now_ you're dripping egg upon your cuff.”

“I'm very sorry, Holmes,” I said, “but I was nervous. I _am_ nervous.”

“But of what?”

“Of you,” I said, now open, vulnerable before him.

He regarded me askew. I pulled the tickets from my pocket, and I waved them as a flag before his face. “Tickets to Wagner,” I explained. “Would you do me the great honour?”

He inspected them. His brows declared their absolute confusion.

“I've no idea if you like Wagner,” I gabbled on. “I've not the foggiest idea if you like _music._ I--”

“I do like Wagner. Very much,” said he. “But Watson, this is not a good idea.”

“On the contrary,” I said, “it is a very good idea.”

He waged a battle with himself for just a minute. “Then I accept,” he said at last. “Thank you,” he added. It appeared that there was more that he might say, indeed, his mouth opened and closed, but further words did not spring forth.

“I received a letter yesterday,” I continued conversationally, relieved and happy now the torture had concluded. “From an old friend of mine, Anstruther, who has a practice newly opened up on Crawford Street. He has invited me to join him. I'm currently considering.”

“Crawford Street is quite close by,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” I hesitated, then: “Holmes, I apologise for yesterday. My conduct was unseemly, and--”

He interrupted me a second time. “I'm equally at fault. I should know better than to fling myself around upon the carpet. I've alarmed more people than I'd like upon that score. I remember once at college--”

“But--” I began.

“Oh Watson, _hush_ , and drink your coffee. I've never known a man so fond of interjection.”

And, well! He was a fine one to be talking! I looked around, and spied a violin propped up against one wall. “You play the violin,” I said in awe. (How I wished that I had spotted it before.)

“I do indeed. A bit of this, a bit of that.”

“How marvellous.”

He eyed me closely. “May I ask you a frank question?” he enquired.

I was about to say _Please do_ , when the landlady knocked upon the door to introduce a visitor – a Mr. Bridgeman, lawyer, seeking advice. We scuttled up and brushed the crumbs away; I took my hat and coat, and shook the hand of my new friend. “I will see you Saturday,” I said. “I'll meet you there. Why don't we have a drink beforehand?”

He nodded, half-distracted. “I shall look forward,” he said warmly. “Good day then, Watson.”

My step was light, my heart the more so, as I made my way to work. Lestrade was thoughtful when I told him of my prospects, as we sat talking in his office. “It would be a shame to lose you,” he said, rubbing at his chin. “Good police surgeons, well, you know, they're hard to come by. Still, it's what you want that's more important. You've made your mind up, eh?”

“I think I have,” I said. “Oh, by the way, Lestrade, what do you know of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, it depends on what you _want_ to know,” replied the slight inspector. “What he gets up to in his spare time, I really couldn't say for sure. He's a more private chap than most, but very helpful in his way. He'll seldom take the credit for any casework he assists with. That's odd, because he's not a modest fellow – as I've no doubt you are aware, if you've spent time with him, ha ha!”

I nodded ruefully. “He says he has an elder brother, have you met him?”

“Good gracious, no. Mr. Mycroft Holmes is far too occupied to grace us with his presence. He has his staff to do all that, if necessary. Oh-ho, you don't know much about him, then? He's rising rapidly in government, quite powerful, considering his years.” Lestrade looked closer at me then. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no real reason,” I bluffed poorly. “I was just curious.”

“It's best you speak to Sherlock Holmes about him, then,” replied Lestrade. “If he won't tell you, then it's hardly my right place to sit here gossiping.”

Gregson's door was firmly closed when I walked past, some minutes later; I did not venture in to bid him a good morning for I had every dark suspicion that he would shout or throw a missile at my head. The day was busy, and I found myself absorbed with different matters in the morgue, and then a modicum of paperwork. Thus the week continued, with stops and starts and fits and bursts, and I was of a great impatience to come to Saturday. I did not contact Holmes at all during this interim, and did my best to avoid Gregson who, it seemed, was of exactly the same mind regarding me.

On Saturday I dressed absurdly early for the concert, then sat twiddling my thumbs, all of a fidget, until the clock said I might leave. My heart was spinning as I made my way as quickly as I could to Covent Garden, where the buzz of eager patrons bound for the theatre and the halls rang as sweet music to my ears. The Wagner hall was popular; the lobby was a maelstrom, and my eyes searched frantically, my mind now spinning doubt and fret. But there he was: by a tall pot plant that he still dwarfed by comparison, and smoking a thin cigarette, and seeming most at ease (unlike my anxious self).

I stepped in front of him. “I'm glad you came,” I said, all butterflies and silliness.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes lowered his eyes and fixed me with a keen regard. “So you assumed that I might not,” said he. I took him in: he was a vision; the most dashing fellow in the hall. I felt the colour in my cheeks rise to a fervent shade of ardour.

“Yes,” I said.

“You're very strange,” he said. “It's _Wagner night_.” He took my arm and led me from the confines of the pot plant to the harbour of the bar, where we bought whiskies and then found a discreet corner, where we sat to watch the hustle back and forth. “That woman is wearing a ridiculous gown,” said my friend. “It's all frou-frou and muddle. If her escort doesn't step on it and rip it half to shreds then I'll be more than half surprised.” He continued with this commentary, much to my own amusement, as we sipped our drinks in comfort.

“So you are only analytical by day,” I said. “By night, you are a babelard.”

“I find that whisky frees my tongue,” said he. “Do you object?”

I shook my head and made a mime of taking notes. He might have countered, had the call not then rung out for us to hurry to our seats, as the concert was now imminent. The stalls were crowded, but we found our places close to the main aisle, and listened to the parps and shrills of the large orchestra, its members tuning up and testing notes. And the conductor tapped his baton on the stand, called to attention, and the first piece came to life.

Shoulder to shoulder, as we were, felt oddly intimate. The corner of my eye sought out his profile, any inch of him I could. I watched his hands, those long cool fingers, as they moved gently to the music, and I felt him shift and shuffle in his seat during the rousing bars that Wagner, I was finding, was inordinately fond of. And so the evening passed this way, with my attention quite divided – but the happiness I felt could scarce be matched. Some hours later, we rolled out into the night, the concert over, but with what catalyst to come?

“Do you have brandy back at Baker Street?” I asked him, as we buttoned up our coats against the chill.

“I have brandy _and_ cigars,” said he.

We caught a cab and rattled through the streets. I felt an ache. Anticipating _what?_ I asked it, crossly. He's not _like_ that, like all the others. ( _What if he was, though?_ asked the ache.)

The fire was lit, the room was warm, when we arrived at Baker Street. With a brandy and cigar apiece, we sat opposite each other.

“Thank you for such a lovely evening,” I said shyly.

Holmes raised his glass. “Well, we should drink to it,” he said. “I think next time, we'll dine at Simpson's. Their roast beef is very good.”

_Next time!_

“Holmes, do you know, I keep a bull pup, and--”

“A firearm?” he interrupted. “Or, do you mean you have a temper?”

“Oh no, it's neither of those things.” I laughed. “I really have a bull pup. His name is Max. He would adore this fire of yours. He'd curl in front of it and snooze away for hours. He snores, you know, and chases rabbits in his sleep.”

“Where is he now?”

“He's back at home, safe in his basket.”

I could hardly bear how beautiful he looked, relaxed and sprawling in his chair, one elbow propped upon the arm rest, with his chin cupped in his palm, and elegant was not the word for him, but something greater, finer, more. My fool heart yearned for him; I needed to say something, or go mad.

I waved a hand above my head. “I would enjoy a tour,” I said, all of my machinations whirring.

Holmes looked blank. “A tour of what? Of here? It's just one room?”

“I know.”

He shrugged, and rose. “This is the fireplace,” he said, now in a winsome tone of voice. (Oh, he was playing with me now, I realised with great delight.) “And over here we have the bookshelves – dry old tomes you would dislike, I'm very sure. And here's the table where I do all my experiments. Don't touch the test tubes, Watson, they have _things_ inside. Over here's the dining table...” I followed closely at his heels, as though this were a wondrous spectacle indeed to be a party to. “...Now, mind the hat stand to your left. Here is the sofa, where I sit, you know...”

“And what's through there?” I asked him, pointing.

Holmes looked sharply back towards me. “That is my bedroom,” he said softly.

“Oh, I see.”

He moved towards it imperturbably. “I had new curtains put in recently,” he told me conversationally. “And the wardrobe's an antique; at least as old as Mrs. Hudson.” He turned the handle, and the door swung inwards silently. We stood upon the cusp, both of us breathing rather heavily, I thought. The seconds stretched and snapped.

“You want me,” he said quietly.

He surely must have heard my heartbeat.

“Yes,” I said. I did not move. I felt his hand upon my shoulder, and his thumb caress the hot skin of my throat, which bobbed and swallowed with desire. 

“You have another,” he said feelingly.

“I don't,” I said. “I never did.” _Not a relationship, no, never that._

Holmes drew away. “The other fellow begs to differ,” he replied.

“He's been to see you?” I asked, shocked.

Holmes nodded solemnly. “On Thursday. I was threatened with a black eye and a broken nose. He may not be aware, though, that I am a clever boxer who could fell him without taking half a breath. It didn't come to that,” he added, “he scuttled off before I had a chance to tell him so.”

“I'm deeply sorry, Holmes,” I said. “I'd no idea. That is not on. I'll have a word with him.”

“So, I repeat: you have another.”

I shook my head. “I swear to you, I ended it on Tuesday. It was a... casual connection,” I added clumsily.

“Not to our friend Gregson, evidently,” Holmes replied. He sighed and stepped back to the sitting-room, where he leaned against the mantel, gazing down into the flame. “You need to clear things up in that direction.”

“And so I will.” I moved beside him. “Were you aware of us... beforehand?”

“Yes. When you first burst into the office, there were clues that I picked up. The fact that Gregson called you 'John'; and then your crumpled shirt, evidently tossed then worn a second time. And,” said Holmes, a small smile upon his face, “I could detect the scent of Rylott's cinnamon soap upon the pair of you.”

“Oh,” I said. “And there I was believing us to be discreet.”

“To others; not to me,” said he. He glanced up at the clock. “Watson, it's late, you'd better head off home.”

The last place on this earth where I would wish to be.

“All right.” Resigned. I shrugged myself into my coat. “Holmes, once I have... cleared things up... we'll meet again, and...?”

“And then we'll talk things through,” he said. He laughed a little at my face, crestfallen as it surely was. “To _begin with_ ,” he added wryly. “Oh, I can see all of the trouble that you are going to be.”

I left him then with fond regards. We did not touch, embrace, or otherwise be intimate. These things were yet a nebula.

I took a cab to Clayton Street. I banged upon the door; heard the confusion and the muttering within. At some great length the door creaked open just a fraction, and that scoundrel's face emerged. “Whatever is the... John?” A frantic blinking, and a nervous glance behind him. “Do you even _know_ what time it is?”

Through the crack I spied a tousled mop of blond, a young man fastening his tie, stooping to lace his shoes. “You hypocrite,” I said. “Toby, you bloody little hypo--”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” he snapped. “And lower your damned voice, or next door's clownheads will be on to us.”

“Toby,” I said quietly, “you must believe me, when I say a thing is over, then it's over, and you _don't_ go out and threaten those I care for with a black eye or a broken nose, you hear me?”

Gregson winced. “I thought as much,” said he. “You care for him, aye aye, I thought as much. The more fool me to introduce you; I should have steered you well away.” A pause. “But if you want my blessing, then you both can go to hell.”

“I want _you_ to understand that your behaviour is abhorrent, and I only want your word that you'll not bother him again.”

Gregson made a foul pretence of a deep curtsey. He was hurting, I could tell, which did distress me. How could such a plain affair end up in such a complex mess? “I'll leave the both of you alone,” said he. His tone was flat and tired. “It's too damn ludicrous for words.” He slammed the door.

Every nerve of me was aching to return to Baker Street; to say _I've cleared things up! We're free to be together now! What next?_ The small percentage of restraint that I had left to me, resisted such an impulse. It was midnight. I should travel home, see to my pup, and go to bed alone; attempt to sleep (that felt unlikely), or what else? To think of Holmes within the doorway of his bedroom, cast in shadow, speaking those words that crackled fiercely down my spine: _You want me_. Yes. Oh yes, I did. I damned well did. It was too ludicrous for words.


	6. Chapter 6

Sunday morning, with a blue sky and pale sunshine, crisp and clear. I hurried breakfast, put a lead onto my dog, and set off walking in the general direction of the park. The air was bracing, and it helped to clear my head of all the thoughts that had so clogged it in the night: the confrontation with Tobias, and the epiphany with Holmes. The latter made me smile; the former less so. How might I prove my new intent to Holmes? How would he be receptive? Would he appreciate my subtlety, or better I be frank? We were grown men, not gawky lads, all thumbs and elbows. “Come on now, Max,” I said, “let's detour; he'll be home, he has to be.”

When we arrived at Baker Street, we both were slightly out of breath. To my dismay, I saw a figure on the step, leaving the house. It was my friend. I raised my voice, called a _hullo!_ He turned his head to see us trotting up towards him.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said, smiling, as we reached his side. “You're lucky that you caught me. I was stepping out.”

“I would not wish to hold you up,” I said, my heart a little blue. “We were just heading to the park.”

“That's my direction too,” said Holmes. “Why don't we walk along together?” He stooped down to pet the pup. “Good dog, good boy.” He squinted up. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I had it out with Gregson, and--”

“Shh,” said he, “not here. Come on, I really must catch Wiggins before his marble competition.”

I blinked, but did not question this absurdity.

“It's all to do with Bridgeman,” said my friend, “you may remember him. The lawyer.”

“Oh yes, while we were having breakfast,” I replied. “You're keeping busy, then.”

“Of course,” said he. “I've more to do than scratch around Lestrade.”

It emerged that Wiggins was a scruffworn urchin, wild straw hair, and boots a sight too large for him. He greeted Holmes with pleasure, and the two talked for some minutes, where I caught the gist that Wiggins and some pals of his were needed to stake out a local tannery. Terms and promises agreed, the ragamuffin made a sharp salute to both of us, and headed down the street, off on his way to racing marbles, I supposed.

“What a strange lad,” I said. 

“But worth his weight in silver,” Holmes replied. “For he can go where I might not, and not appear the least suspicious. There's odd business at that tannery, and Wiggins and his gang will keep an eye on it.”

“And in return you pay them handsomely,” I added.

“I've earned their loyalty,” said he. He touched my arm. “Watson, I'm all yours now. Where should we go?”

I knew where I should _like_ to go! The park had lost its flavour for the moment. “Baker Street,” I said. “Unless you would prefer to walk a little longer?”

“Not particularly.” 

We turned and headed back the way we'd come. I left the pup with Mrs. Hudson, who set to spoiling him, and Holmes and I trekked upwards to the sitting-room. We shed our coats and hats, and took the sofa, side by side. “Mrs. Hudson will bring tea soon,” said my friend. “She always does.”

I told him then, of what transpired after we parted on the Saturday. Holmes nodded slowly, saying nothing until I'd rumbled to a halt. “It was a physical affair,” he said reflectively.

I nodded. “Yes. I told you, it was quite casual.”

“On your side, not on his,” said Holmes. He paused a second. “As I told you.”

I frowned. “I don't quite understand?”

Holmes sighed. “He cared a little more for you than you for him. Which really begs the question, are you nervous of commitment?”

“Why, I, um, not at all, no. _No_. It is all a question of meeting the right chap, wouldn't you say?”

“I see.”

This conversation was becoming quite as torturous as the one I'd had with Gregson. (Had Gregson cared for me at all? It didn't seem so at the time. Perhaps I was not very good at all of this.) “What is your history?” I asked him.

Holmes's eyelids shuttered down. He pursed his lips. “Hardly worth mentioning,” he said. 

“That is evasive.”

“And it's _meant_ to be. Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.”

“Good god,” I said.

“Well, quite. I'm loath to toss around my heart as if it were on some elastic cord and easily retrievable. I've not the time nor yet the patience.”

“But Holmes, last night...”

“Last night you wanted me,” he snapped. He swept a hand across his face and through his hair. His features softened. “And I wanted you,” he said.

My heart turned over in my chest, I lost my breath and more than half my equilibrium. “And do you, still?” I dared to whisper.

His handsome face now puckered up as if in pain.

“I want you terribly,” I said, my voice a hush. I reached a hand to touch the paisley of his waistcoat, and he jerked, and froze, and stared at it, as if it were a spider set on wrapping him in silk.

“Mrs. Hudson with the tea,” said Holmes, his ears attuned to sounds from half a mile away, it seemed. He sprang up, strode to the door and pulled it open. Mrs. Hudson, with the tea tray, blinked up uncertainly, her boots about to set upon the landing, but her nose a-twitch in itching curiosity. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, very kind of you, most kind.” Holmes drew the tray into the room and closed the door. “Sandwiches _and_ cake, and sugar biscuits,” he said meekly.

“Bring them over here,” I said. Somehow I managed to play mother, and I poured the tea for both of us. We set the cups aside. “I've disappointed you,” I said.

“No, no,” said he, all of a fluster.

“I've not met anyone like you before,” I said.

“Someone as highly-strung, you mean,” said Holmes, his upper lip curled, baring teeth. “Someone as _awkward_.”

“Someone with whom I think I could foresee a future,” I said honestly.

He gawked at me.

“Watson,” he said at last, “I think you surely have a temperature.”

“You doubt my motives?”

“I don't know. I hate not knowing things.” He sipped his tea. He eyed me gravely. “I hate not knowing what would have happened if I'd said _yes_ to you last night.”

I felt a pang. “Don't tease like this,” I said. “You say that, but you flinch if I move near you. Was it the whisky and the brandy that made you feel that way last night?” 

Holmes remained silent. I stood up. “I've taken too much of your time,” I said. “And Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to stay with Max. I'd better go and see to him, and...” my voice tailed off, for Holmes's face had set to stone; he rose now too, and watched me as I picked my hat and coat and moved towards the door. I felt so thwarted and denied, I scarcely knew what I might do. “Another time,” I said. And still, the face of stone looked back at me and uttered nothing, not a word. I left the room, collected Max, and returned home, feeling as empty and forlorn as it was possible to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I handed in my notice with the Yard on Monday morning, and I set the wheels in motion for my venture with Anstruther. The latter was a stout and jolly fellow, with a charming wife and daughters, all of whom lived on the premises above the foundling surgery. The rooms on the ground floor were clean and spacious, furnished well, and already with a bustle and a hum, as transferred patients came to introduce themselves and their infirmities. Anstruther was insistent that I dine with them that evening, and I accepted. All these things to fill and please my time, therefore, and very glad I was to have them, otherwise I should be maudlin. But no time for that!

“My daughters are excited to be meeting you at last, John,” said my friend. “It is not often that they get to meet a handsome, single fellow such as yourself.” He chuckled heartily. “My wife and I are most _particular_ as to whom they intermingle with. There are so many cads about.”

“Oh, well, um, yes,” I said, “that's true.”

“You need to settle down and marry. A happy home, a happy mind, a happy surgery, ha ha!”

“I'm sure you're right,” I said. “Ho hum! Plenty of time, though, and all that.”

“Pish posh,” said he. “You're thirty now. What are you waiting for? The Queen?”

Well, if I told him, he might swallow half his tongue, so I just smiled and changed the subject. Fresh spring flowers would be lovely for the surgery! _Oh yes, I do believe you're right, John, what a jolly good idea._

Meanwhile, 'The Queen' sat in his chair at 221B Baker Street, smoking his pipe, and thinking who knew what about the thirty-year-old doctor in the surgery on Crawford Street.


	7. Chapter 7

Isobel and Jane had paid attention all through dinner, and now with coffee in the sitting-room, they sat on either side of my suspicious self and played at the coquette. How ladies talk so! All the questions made my head spin. There was a rivalry between them, it appeared, with Isobel the elder making a greater play and fight for my attention. Anstruther meanwhile sat and chuckled in amusement to himself, winked at his wife and shook his head, as if to say _These girls! My goodness_ – which was of little help to me, now going under for the third time.

“Dr. Watson, tell me all about the war, it must have been so very thrilling.”

“No, Isobel, he doesn't want to speak of _that_. But, doctor, tell me what your home is like, and do you have a garden, and a maid?”

“Oh, Jane, what nonsense, do be quiet. Now, Dr. Watson...”

And so it carried on, my head a boomerang from side to side, my both ears pummelled senseless, until I chanced to spy the clock upon the mantelpiece.

“It's seven-thirty!” I exclaimed. “I'd no idea it was so late.” I scrambled up, to the dismay of my attendants.

“Well, John,” said my old friend, “if you could wait a few more minutes then you might walk with Isobel to her Aunt Jessica's. She has been asked to spend the night there, as my sister has been feeling quite unwell these past few days.” He shook his head. “Her heart, we think. Some solidarity and company, it does the power of good. I would have walked with Isobel myself, of course, but as you're on your way...?”

“Yes, of course, I'd be delighted,” I replied, a gallant stoic to the end.

Miss Isobel walked slowly, and yet alas, she kept on talking. Her arm tucked tight in mine, we wended our way gradually, the street lamps pooling light, the cool air making us both shiver. “It's so cold,” the girl complained, “it doesn't feel like spring at all. Look, how that gentleman is hurrying, he can't wait to be home and by his fire.” I looked in the direction she was pointing, but the figure had dissolved into the shadows. “It's been so nice to spend this evening with you, doctor,” said she, sweetly. “I hope we'll see you often now.”

“I'm sure you will,” I replied dolefully.

“Well, here we are,” the girl declared as we stopped by a small front door. “This is Aunt Jessica's.” She raised herself up on her tiptoes, pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “Thank you again,” said she – and drawing a small key out from her purse, unlocked the door and disappeared within. I stood there for a moment, thrown; it took a group of passers-by to stir me into moving, to set out for home.

Home was frigid, unsurprisingly. I lit a fire, and settled down beside it with a book, but scarcely had I read a page when a light knock upon my door pulled me away. I couldn't think who it might be; surely not Gregson (his was more forthright), nor my neighbours, whom I knew were out of town visiting family. I hastened up and called _Who is it?_ through the crack.

“Let me in.”

My god.

I fumbled with the key, opened the door, and there was Sherlock Holmes. I stared at him. It seemed to irritate him. “Let me in,” he said again. His tone was cold. I stood back slowly, watched him enter and look around with some distaste. “This is a dump.”

“You're right, it is,” I said. I closed the door. I waited; tense, unsure.

“Did you enjoy your rendezvous?” he asked. He moved to look out of the window, through the curtain, at the night sky or the rooftops, heaven knows.

“My what? I was at dinner with Anstruther, Holmes. I--”

“You _liar_ ,” he spat out. “I saw you walking with a... _woman_. Your arms were linked. I saw her _kiss_ you. You are a _liar_.”

“That was his daughter, Isobel,” I said, voice shaking from the shock of Holmes's fury. “There were the five of us at dinner: Anstruther's family, and me. I was walking Isobel to see her _aunt_. She is affectionate, regrettably. You followed us?” I added then, in disbelief. “But, how?”

He slumped against the wall. “What do you mean, _'but how?'_? I saw you on the street. I followed you.” His tone was softer now. “So she means nothing to you, then?”

“Holmes,” I said, moving towards him, “she means far less than that.”

Was it so dreadful of me, then, to feel a sharp reverb of triumph? _He is jealous. He is angry. He_ does _want me, after all._

“I wish you'd trust me,” I said sadly.

“I want to trust you.”

“Why is it difficult?”

He slammed a hand against the wall. “Because I'm _afraid_. Afraid of feeling. Afraid of losing all I've worked for; being vulnerable.” He paused to breathe. “You barely know me. I'm obsessive. If I admitted you, I'd never let you go. You'd suffocate.”

“I'd be prepared to take that risk,” I said, my heart beating aloud, my every nerve alive, in ferment.

“I will _not_ share you.”

“You won't have to.”

He raised his head, and oh, what depth and hope behind those eyes. “Give me a drink,” said he. “You surely must have something here.”

I poured us both a whisky, and sat us down beside the fire. Holmes, leaning forward, gazed long into it, the silence that we nurtured only broken by the snuffle of the pup, and the low crackle of the coal. At length, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I fell in love, at university,” he said. “It ended horribly. I swore to never fall in love again. The fellow played me for a fool, and I declare, I was the greatest one.” He twitched one eye to squint at me. “I'm sure that you were wondering.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I said, as I could sense that he would not say any more upon the subject, or at least not for the while.

I told him something of my own youth, not painting over my more dubious adventures. For although they were now firmly in the past, I felt that Holmes would want to know; to arbitrate that I was honest and sincere. He listened patiently, attentive to my rambling. “I like your hands,” he said. I stopped, looked down, examined them, confused. “They're strong and capable,” said he. “They should be smaller, for the size of you.”

“That compliment was double-edged,” I said, and laughed. 

Holmes looked contrite. “It wasn't meant to be. I like most everything about you. It's been so long since I've liked anyone, you know.”

“Gregson thought you were a dirty little puzzle,” I told him carelessly.

He burst into a hearty laugh. “That fellow's one to talk. All mouth and trousers – that's how the saying goes, I think?” We sat there, smiling at each other. “I suppose that I should leave,” said Holmes at last. “It's getting late.”

“You don't have to,” I said quietly.

We rose and hovered in each other's space. “I must,” he said. “But first...”

His hands were in my hair, his lips were pressed to mine. They were the softest lips I'd ever touched, as smooth, as plump as 'mallow; and I crushed my own to his as though I were a drowning man. We clung and wrestled with each other, hands now roving and caressing, with his left upon my backside, and my right upon his thigh, it seemed quite needful that we move or separate.

“You _can't_ go home,” I whispered hoarsely. “Come to bed with me.”

He moaned. “You know I want to, John, I want to.”

I thrust my tongue in him, to shut him up. I pulled him by his elbows; he resisted at the doorframe. With my saliva on his chin, his hair a shock, his braces shucked, he gasped and scrabbled and regrouped. “I hadn't planned on this,” he breathed.

“I know.” We pulled apart. “You're having second thoughts?”

“It's been so long,” he said again, his voice a hush. “I'd like our first time to be somewhere else.” He huffed a laugh. “At Baker Street.”

“If you want to take things slowly,” I said sincerely, “then we will.”

We stood and surveyed one another, flushed and breathless, rearranging clothes and hair.

“Not quite as slowly as all _that_ ,” said he. “Just rather, in more comfort.” He stroked my cheek. “Thank you.”

“Thank me for what?” I smiled, “I all but near deflowered you on the rug.”

“That's what I mean,” said Sherlock Holmes, “you've no decorum.” But he winked at me, and so my feelings were not hurt at all.

We kissed again by the front door, and softly, gently, took our time. “Thank you for trusting me,” I said. I snubbed his nose. I pressed my lips against his throat, and tongued a line of butterflies up to his ear, which I nipped sharply with my teeth. He whined a little, jerking, twitching. “When can I see you next?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. Soon,” was his reply. We made arrangements. 

I made plans.


	8. Chapter 8

My working day on Tuesday was divided. In the morning, I was at the Yard, attending to my duties, clearing up some paperwork, and making ready for my leaving. It was bittersweet, this time, between the staying and the going. I had not worked here for very long, but I would miss it all the same. Tobias Gregson stood himself inside my doorway as the morning ticked to noon.

“I've heard you're leaving us,” said he. His tone was cautious, delicate.

“That's right,” I said. I straightened up, on the alert in case he made a fuss. It seemed that he might not. He nodded civilly, and edged his way into the room. He hesitated, then:

“It's best you make the break,” he said, with effort. “It's the grandest opportunity. Who knows, one day you'll have your own place, with your name upon the door.”

I smiled. “Who knows.”

“Are things still going well with... you know?”

“Yes,” I said. “In fact, they are. Thank you for asking.”

He held his hands up, palms towards me. “I've no beef with that. Not anymore. You do your thing. We two weren't so well matched, I've come to realise.” He scratched his ear. “At least, not outside of the bed.” He grinned.

“ _Toby_...”

He thrust his hand towards me. “Let's not end things as badly as the other night, eh, John.”

I accepted, and we shook. I saw him visibly relax; as well relieved as I, perhaps, to renegotiate a friendship of some sort. He didn't linger; felt it awkward to, I think. I spent the next hour quite alone, writing up notes and filing documents. In the afternoon I went to see Anstruther, and found him busy overseeing decorations to the hall: framed prints and mottoes on the wall, assorted curios.

“Just making the place pretty, John,” said he, with a grand gesture. He came up to me. “Your room is ready. You'll have everything you need in there. Ho ho!” He rubbed his hands. “We'll soon have everything like clockwork, just you see.”

“That will be wonderful,” I told him. We did not speak of the last evening, which made me wonder if my friend had read between the lines and realised, at last, that my ineptitude with close female attention was not attributed to diffidence. Well, time would tell. I had far greater things to occupy my mind.

The afternoon proceeded slowly. At five o'clock, I wended home to bathe and change. I felt a rumble of excitement in my stomach, so familiar, and fierce. I took a cab to Baker Street. I heard the bell ring through the house, and the quick footsteps of the landlady.

“Good gracious, Dr. Watson,” said she, now drawing back before me. 

I bowed my head. “Mrs. Hudson, a good evening.”

I took the stairs two at a time. The door was open at the top, and Sherlock Holmes was standing there, smart as you like, polished and primed.

“These are for you,” I said. Into his face, I thrust a bunch of flowers; tulips and daffodils. As a side-note, I held out a box of chocolates. “And these.”

He retreated, slightly flummoxed by the cavalcade of gifts. “I have no vase for these,” he said.

“Well, use a boot.”

He beamed. “No one has _ever_ bought me flowers. Is it the done thing? You're a madman, John.”

“I'm making it the done thing. And I'm quite happy to be mad.” I swept him up, the flowers and the chocolates asunder, and I kissed him quite as feelingly, and held him quite as closely, as it was possible to do.

We gasped for breath eventually.

“You've messed my hair,” said he, complaining.

“I'll mess more than that,” I said.

We took a moment to compose ourselves.

“I've thought of you all day.”

He coloured pink. “Thought of me, how?”

I laughed; demurred. “You'd slap my face.”

“I haven't yet.”

That much was true.

We dined at Simpson's in the Strand, as Holmes had promised, in a booth that offered privacy, the restaurant half-full, and so lending us the chance and opportunity to gam. I held his hand covertly, screened by the candles and the bottle of Bordeaux; we could not tear our eyes away. My boot tip sought his shin and roughed it, gently, searchingly. Our talk was fractured and sporadic, so bound up were we in our love match; such a novelty, a precious one, for both of us.

“Tell me of Mycroft,” I said at last, between the main course and dessert. “Why do you two not get along?”

“Oh, you've been talking to Lestrade,” said he. “I didn't tell you of my brother's name.”

“Perhaps,” I said, a flush upon my cheek.

Holmes smiled. “Mycroft is dictatorial. He always was. We fought when we were children, and we still fight, even now. He is as odd a bird as I am; even odder.” Holmes paused to take a sip of wine, to readjust his cuffs. “He's always wanted to control me, and it's never really worked, so we lock horns. John, do you know, Mycroft writes letters to himself?”

“Writes letters?”

“Yes. Love letters. In his own hand, but they're signed off with a different name. He posts them to himself.”

“Holmes, that _is_ very odd.”

My friend laughed. “I caught him writing one, one day. He was quite horribly embarrassed. (I'm very nosy, John, you see.) They always start off just the same: _'My darling Mycroft...'”_

“Signed by a woman, or a man?” I was intrigued.

“Oh, by a woman. 'Her' name is Marybelle LaRoux.” Holmes laughed again. “If Mycroft knew that I had found them, and had read them all, I don't know what he'd do.”

“Is he aware of... you?”

Holmes shrugged. “I've no idea.”

Dessert arrived. We neither of us had much appetite, engaged as we both were upon our wooing.

“You know,” said Holmes, “this cannot be much good for the digestion.”

In the cab, en route to Baker Street, we sat apart. The tension of the evening was delicious, yet still a torment, and I counted down the minutes as we clattered through the streets, and cursed the seconds that delayed us, and the key that fumbled in the latch, the stairs that climbed to hinder us.

At last, inside his sitting-room.

“Do you want brandy?” he enquired.

I shook my head. “I just want you.” I moved towards him, took his hand, and placed the lightest kiss upon it. He closed his eyes, lowered his forehead to touch mine. We stood there quietly, quite achingly aware of skin and cloth, and hair and bone. He drew me gently to his bedroom, where he lit the lamp, and closed the door, and turned the covers down. Off came his jacket, and his waistcoat, and his tie. I watched him, rapt, scarcely believing this was happening at last. And then the buttons on his shirt, his collar loosened, and the braces, and the buttons of his trousers, all undone. He hesitated then. “Don't stop,” I told him, barely yet a whisper, and barely could he hear me, but he carried on. And then, naked before me, he raised his arms away, as if to say _And that is all, at last, and here I am_. It was the most seductive act I'd ever seen, or heard, or dreamed of.

“You are magnificent,” I said.

“And you're still dressed,” said he.

I stripped, with only half the grace; not even that. We fell upon the bed, and so entwined ourselves: all legs and arms, and cocks, like some cat's cradle gone awry. I worshipped him; I kissed his skin, and ran my fingertips across him, heard the intake of his breath; I cupped him, stroked him, and with tiny gasps, he curled himself around me. “What do you need,” he whispered softly. This lean and tender, featherweighted man; I craved all I could reach of him. I took him in my mouth; he yipped and yowled, and locked his hands behind my head to better guide me, to teach me slowly what he liked; I taught him something of my own. He keened and bucked upon the bed. I licked the tip of him. “Try not to come,” I said. I swiped my fingers through his pre-ejaculate. “I'm going to finger you,” I said.

“Oh god.” A strangle; barely that.

I breached him gradually, his moans grew ever louder, 'til I feared that Mrs. Hudson might come knocking, surprised and anxious that her tenant be in agony or murder. “Hush,” I said, “you have to hush!”

“I damned well can't,” said he. “ _You_ try it, with my fingers up _your_ arse.”

This struck us both as fair hilarious. 

“Do you want...?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I want.”

We found some oil, and I prepared him, and myself. He eased himself into my lap; I lay against the feather bolster, gazed up into those grey eyes, which flashed and glittered in the light. “You are _gargantuan_ ,” said he, in half-complaint. He wriggled down to take me in. He whined and wriggled still some more, 'til by degrees I found him hooked and fully seated. “ _Ow_ ,” he said.

“Are you all right?”

“Give me a minute. Yes.” He lifted up, and lowered himself down experimentally. “Oh, _yes_.” He rode me steadily; I thrust a little, making him cry out. We set a pace; I grasped his hips, he ground down roughly, and we took each other brutally. He was the first to come; he howled and called my name; and clenched himself around me, bringing me to my own pleasure, where I filled him, and I could not stop, moreover, did not want to. We collapsed against each other; words were said, such raw, barbaric words of love. I held him tenderly. My heart beat with a rapture; I was lost, completely, utterly.

“And I was thinking you a virgin,” I said softly.

“So I was.”

I started up, dismayed.

“No, John, don't catapult like that. I thought it wouldn't do much good, if I admitted it. I wanted you so badly. I didn't want you to make _allowances_.” He brushed my cheek. “So you're the first. That other fellow was just practice.” And he smiled, and kissed me softly.

“I think I love you,” I said honestly.

“You think!”

I laughed. “I do.”

“Well, then, I'm glad. I love you too. It's such a nuisance.”

“Quite a hindrance,” I agreed.

“At some point, John,” said he, “perhaps not now, but in the future, we might live together, mightn't we.”

“We might,” I said, my heart full with the thought of that.

“Your dog, as well,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson is so fond of him already.”

“Max would adore it,” I said, chuckling. “All three of us would spoil him so.”

“At some point,” Holmes reminded me. “Not now, but in the future.”

And we lay there, in the bed, at peace, and dreaming in our own and separate ways of a bright future, that was promising, _at some point_ , to be with us in the now.

\- END -


End file.
